Chameleon's Shadow

elderly neighbour. It was hard to tell from the man’s disapproving expression whether his grievance was with the bonfire or with Kitten’s colourful language about Acland’s criminal behaviour.

‘You’re a fucking moron!’ Kitten finished angrily. ‘I’ll call the police if you don’t put that bloody thing out now.’

Behind her, Acland caught a glimpse of a child’s anxious face. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘It’s not illegal, it’s just not encouraged in case people like you complain. The police have better things to do than explain to a screeching harridan that she’s got her facts wrong.’ He saw the child pluck at her sleeve, then jump away to avoid a vicious jab from her elbow.

‘It’s the summer, for Christ’s sake,’ she hissed. ‘Do you know what the temperature is? We’ll all go up if a spark hits the fence. Can’t you see that? Or are you blind in both fucking eyes?’

Acland looked at the fire. ‘It’s under control,’ he murmured, using his foot to nudge the remains of a cardboard folder towards the dying flames.

‘No, it’s not. My baby’s choking on the smoke. Do you want me to sue you when he gets asthma? You’re so damn selfish. Don’t they teach you about climate change in the army?’

‘There’d be no point. You don’t count pollutants when an oil well blows up, you just count the corpses. Have you ever seen a body burned to the bone while it’s still alive? The stink’s so bad you can’t go within ten yards without breathing apparatus. All you can do is watch the poor bastard die . . . and that’s not pretty.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ she said angrily. ‘I don’t want my kids having nightmares.’

‘Then don’t pretend one little fire in London does more damage than what’s going on in Iraq and Afghanistan. Every time a Tornado takes off the ozone layer takes another hit.’ He watched his army medical card melt and curl. ‘War destroys everything. Better your children understand that now. It’ll give them a chance to enjoy their lives before the world goes up in flames.’

But she wasn’t interested in philosophy. ‘Don’t you tell me how to raise my kids. At least they don’t run around the streets half-naked and shout their heads off in the middle of the fucking night. You’re a headcase. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’re the gay killer. You’re psycho enough for it.’

Acland hadn’t realized that his terrifying awakenings from nightmares were loud enough to carry to the floor above. He squinted up at her again. ‘What gay killer?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.’

He eyed her for a moment, then trod out the ashes with his shoe. ‘You should see a psychiatrist,’ he said. ‘Someone ought to tell you that the reason men don’t want to have sex with you isn’t because they’re gay. It’s because you’re a complete turn-off. Your husband proved that by leaving.’

‘Bastard!’ She threw something at him – a china ornament – but it missed and fell with a thud into some weeds by the fence. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

Acland’s fingers itched to retrieve the missile and launch it back again – there was no way he would miss – but he held himself in check. ‘I know enough not to want to know any more,’ he said with sudden resolve, heading towards his french windows. ‘I’m out of here as soon as I’ve packed my stuff.’

*

He rued his spur-of-the-moment decision as soon as he was back inside. With five months of his tenancy left he would be paying rent on an empty space until the agents could be bothered to advertise for another occupant. But there was no going back on it. The bitch upstairs would have a field day if he changed his mind.

In any case, he knew he couldn’t go on like this. Something had to change. At times the pains in his head were unbearable.

He resisted any impulse to take up Jackson’s offer of a bed. If he thought Kitten would gloat over a change of mind, he could just imagine what Jackson would say if he crawled back in under twenty-four hours with his tail between his legs. He was more inclined to listen to Robert Willis’s voice inside his head, even if burning the card had been an attempt to cut his ties with the man.

‘We can all walk out, Charles – it’s the fashionable thing to do these days – it’s asking to be let back in that takes courage.’

On another spur-of-the-moment decision, he called a cab and gave the driver the name of the road that Willis’s colleague, Susan Campbell, lived in. ‘Which number, mate?’

‘I can’t remember. Just go slowly when we get there. I’ll recognize the front door when I see it.’

‘You’re the boss.’

Twenty minutes later, and after three passes up and down the street, the cabbie drew into a parking space and turned round. His expression was wary, as if he’d begun to suspect that his passenger’s disfigured face was a reflection of something warped inside. ‘We can do this all afternoon, mate, but the meter’s ticking and I need some proof that you can pay. I reckon you’re looking for somewhere to doss . . . but that somewhere ain’t gonna be this cab.’

With a sigh, Acland took out his wallet. ‘I know which house it is. I just don’t know if I want to go in,’ he said, sorting the fare.

The driver grew more amenable at the sight of cash. ‘I feel the same every time I visit the ex’s place to take my kids out.’

Acland handed over a twenty-pound note. ‘I don’t suppose you know of a cheap hotel somewhere? I don’t care which part of London it’s in.’

‘How cheap?’

‘Thirty quid a night.’

The cabbie laughed. ‘You’ve gotta be joking. It’s the height of the tourist season. You could get lucky on a last-minute deal somewhere, but it’ll cost you an arm and a leg to drive around looking for it. If you’ve a laptop, you might find something on the internet, but I wouldn’t bet on it. London’s expensive.’